


Hymnal

by JLSigman



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-05-13 22:42:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5719729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JLSigman/pseuds/JLSigman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Hymnal</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hymnal

**Author's Note:**

> [Originally posted August 17, 2008](http://asylums.insanejournal.com/multi_ficathon/2621.html)

The church was largely abandoned by the populace in the aftermath of the fall of the Order of the Sword. No-one was sure what to believe anymore, and there were many more important things to fix, like housing, hospitals, and infrastructure. There was also the Hell Gate sleeping underneath, which caused endless debates as to whether the structure should be collapsed on top of it or left open and a guard permanently posted over it.

That the guard would be Nero was not even questioned. He was, after all, in possession of the one thing that could open it, and had the strength and skills to fend off anyone who might want to try to find other ways of opening the Gate.

As Kyrie pushed open the heavy doors to the main sanctuary, she thought that the one person she did not want near the Gate for too long was Nero. While she had accepted all who he was and had become, it did not mean she didn't fear the potential his demonic arm contained. She did not want him near that kind of evil power any longer than he absolutely had to. She sighed as the doors swung shut behind her.

Everything was still so new and tender, barely healed wounds that bled at the slightest provocation. Like the cleaning of this chamber. Here, where she had sung so often while Nero watched with burning eyes in the audience. Now the pews were scattered, the altar defiled, the statue broken, and the floor covered with debris. She was only one tiny woman, but this was her fight, and she'd do the best she could, even if she was the only one who wanted to do it.

She quickly found out how little one could do. She could not upright the pews. They were solid, each carved out from the trunk of a tree. She tore her fingernails trying to find the leverage to drag a part of a shattered bench. In frustration, she wept and sucked on a bleeding finger before pulling a splinter out of it. After a moment, she forced herself to breath, to wipe away the tears, and try to do something else.

She picked up one of the hymnals. The cover had been slashed and the pages inside were ruined. There had been two battles here: she remembered watching the beginning of Dante and Nero's first clash with horror before her brother had hurried her out; later, as Nero was finishing off the obscene Savior, Dante told her that he had finished off Agnus here before sealing the Gate. There were deep gouges in many things, burn marks, splashes of something that had once been red, and piles of dust where things she didn't care to remember had died. She sighed again, then pressed her lips together and started stacking the ruined songbooks so they could be burned later. As she made her way around the space, careful to avoid the gaping holes in the floor, she found herself wishing the place had been utterly destroyed. Anything was better than seeing everything she had believed in so completely ruined.

She picked up another hymnal, tiredly noting the partially cracked binding, and almost tossed it onto the nearest pile when she realized that was the only damage to it. She sat on the edge of the dais by the pulpit and carefully perused the pages, occasionally humming melodies as her eyes scanned them. She paused when she came to a page with a scribbled note above the first line of music. “with Kyrie, Droma's funeral” was faintly penciled in, and an arrow pointed to the alto line.

Kyrie's eyebrows drew together as she searched her memories. Droma had been an old and beloved teacher, who had died a few years before, when she was just starting to sing. Her finger carefully traced the alto line, noting how it dipped into the tenor range, trying to sort through the many duets she sang. Tentatively, she sang the melody of the first verse.

“O power, deep and broad and high,  
beyond all thought, in majesty,  
that Sparda, Lord, in pity should take  
a mortal form for mortals' sake!”

Her memories supplied her with a face: a young woman, a few years older than Kyrie herself had been then, blue eyed, brown haired, painfully shy when she wasn't singing. She couldn't remember the name of her partner, now, and wondered if she was still alive somewhere. So many had died... it seemed appropriate to sing the dirge here, now, so she went on.

“He was no angel sent in grace,  
and though of a much lower place,  
He wore the robe of human frame  
for us, and to this weak world came.”

She trailed off, tears blurring her sight again. The acoustics were ruined, and who listened, who cared? She threw the book with all her might, hearing the binding crack completely as it struck the floor. She was tired of this place, she was tired of crying again. She wanted to hold Nero now, so she left the dust and dried blood and ruin and went to find her new life.


End file.
